“What’re you thinking about?” Brittany asks, nudging my arm with her elbow. “You’ve got this weird expression on your face.”
“Just contemplating my own mortality,” I reply lightly. “The usual.”
She laughs, and there it is—that sparkle in her eyes before the sound comes out. “That’s a heavy topic for a coffee run.”
“I like to keep things profound while caffeinating,” I say with a shrug. “It’s my specialty.”
The line moves forward, and we step up together. The small space forces us to stand closer than necessary, our shoulders occasionally brushing. Each point of contact sends a current through me that I’m trying very hard to ignore.
“What’s good here?” she asks, peering up at the chalkboard menu above the counter.
“Everything,” I say honestly. “But their cold brew is legendary. It’s like rocket fuel, but it tastes like chocolate somehow.”
“Tempting,” she muses, “but I prefer my coffee a little more … flavorful.”
“Let me guess,” I say, squinting at her. “You’re gonna order something with at least five words in the name, specify its exact temperature, and request some kind of milk that comes from a nut or a bean but definitely not a cow.”
Her mouth drops open. “That is …disturbinglyaccurate.”
“I’m a programmer,” I remind her. “Pattern recognition is my thing.”
When we reach the counter, Brittany proves me right by ordering an iced vanilla oat milk latte with an extra shot and light ice. I bite back a smile as I order my simple cold brew.
“Don’t youdaresay anything,” she warns as we move to the pickup area.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m just impressed you managed to fit all those specifications into one breath.”
“It’s a talent,” she admits with a grin. “I spent three years as a barista during undergrad. You learn the lingo.”
“I bet you intimidated the snot out of the new hires,” I say, picturing a younger Brittany efficiently running a coffee shop with the same determination she seems to approach everything with.
“Only the ones who didn’t steam the milk properly,” she says with a wink that does strange things to my insides.
“So,” I say, eager to change the subject. “Are you excited about the new place? Or nervous?”
“Both? It’s weird. I was so ready to get out of Parker’s, but now that it’s happening…”
“Second thoughts?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” She sighs. “I guess I’m just bummed I’m gonna be living alone again.”
“Ah. The solo-living adventure,” I say, nodding. “It’s a mixed bag. No one eats your leftovers, but no one helps you kill spiders.”
She smiles. “Are you volunteering for spider duty? Because I might take you up on that.”
The thought of Brittany calling me to come over, of having a reason to see her outside of Parker’s watchful eye, is more appealing than it should be. “I’m an excellent spider relocator,” I assure her. “Very humane. I give them little pep talks about finding better real estate opportunities.”
She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Living alone does have its perks, though,” I offer. “You can dance around in your underwear, eat ice cream for dinner without judgment, leave dishes in the sink for days…”
“That all sounds very mature,” she teases.
“Maturity is overrated,” I counter. “Just ask Parker.”
“Speaking of my brother,” Brittany says, glancing at her phone, “he’s probably having an aneurysm waiting for us.”
“Let him sweat,” I joke. “He could use a lesson in patience.”
